Knots
by bamftastik
Summary: While waiting for word of Annie's fate, Finnick ties knots and reflects on the memories dredged up by his most recent interview.
1. Chapter 1

_Over, under, pull it through  
>Bend the ends, make one of two<br>Backward, forward, let it give  
>Twist the heart and watch it slip<em>

The rope fell limp in his fingers. He took it up again. Cat's Paw, Lark's Head, Rolling Hitch… The motions were easy, familiar. And all just as easily undone.

There was no such thing as a knot that couldn't be unraveled. People had spent generations trying to invent one, sure. There were trick knots – ones that required more than simply following the pattern in reverse – and moistened cinches pulled so tight that not even a fingernail could slip between the coils. But with enough time, enough patience, anything could come apart.

Sometimes all it took was a single strand, the right pressure on the smallest loop. No matter how intricate, no matter how hard, no matter how many years had gone into building coil upon coil, into making it beautiful and secret and unbreakable… Find the right piece and it would all come crashing down.

He made the knot again. The one his hands always made when he let his concentration wander. He had created it himself, trying again and again until he got it just right. She had always liked them – the decorative ones, more delicate than useful. She had taught him to fashion the likeness of a trout, the many loops of a flower, to weave two strands so that they would twirl prettily when pulled apart. At first it had seemed silly, but he found he didn't care.

This one he had made for her. One strand – old and frayed – looping back on itself again and again, becoming thicker, changing shape. The end always moving, always running. Knotted at the middle. Delicate and small.

Finnick blinked down at the heart in his hand. With one deft tug, it was gone.

He should get up. He should move. But he was afraid. Afraid to feel that strange relief again, afraid to make the moment come. They would be airing his interview, broadcasting secrets, scandals, memories given new life. He pinched shut his eyes.

He had given their forces time, they said. But time for what? Time to see if their friends still lived? Time to uncover the horrors of their final moments? Time to die themselves? Would they have a chance to report back, to tell him that he had been wondering on borrowed time, that the knots had slipped loose long ago?

But he would know it if she'd… if she was… wouldn't he? What if they news they brought back was something worse?

How many times he had made and unmade the knot, he couldn't say. New callouses were forming beneath his skin, leaving even his practiced hands cracked and raw. Still he sat, worrying the rope between his fingers. Worrying. Always worrying.

Soon the time for worry would be over. Soon he would know. With a final tug, he watched the heart knot come undone.


	2. Chapter 2

_Over, under, pull it through..._

Through. He'd made it through. The girl – the one from District One – she'd almost made it, too. But instead his trident had gone through her middle, holding her suspended before him. He watched the blood soak her shirt, spreading as the fury left her eyes. He hadn't thought she'd be so heavy.

As he jerked his weapon free, the cannon rang out. It was a moment before he could place the sound, realized what it meant.

Tilting his head, he blinked down at the girl. He should know her name, shouldn't he? He'd always liked the way she smiled at him. They'd even been allies at one time. He should remember. But it was _his _name they were cheering now, the roar of the Capitol crowds echoing through the dome.

Thrusting his trident into the air, Finnick let out a whoop of triumph.

The grin froze on his face as the hovercraft materialized and lifted him skyward. He remembered little of the ride back to the Capitol; he'd sat stiffly, still holding the trident. Someone might have offered him a drink but he wasn't hungry, wasn't thirsty. After that, they'd left him alone.

Mags was waiting on the roof of the Training Center, her own smile stained with tears, but he didn't see them as he threw himself into her arms. It was awkward with the weapon between them, but it was a long time before she pulled away, before she gently tried to pry it from his white-knuckled fingers.

"There, now. No more."

He couldn't say when he'd started shaking, when the laughter had given way to sobs. Mags barked for someone to fetch a blanket, but he wasn't cold.

Ruby. Her name had been Ruby. A silly District One name. A silly girl. A silly death.

The red stain on the trident's prongs suddenly seemed a cruel joke. He fell to his knees, tugging off his shirt to try and wipe the blood away. But more stained the thin fabric; he twisted it in his hands trying to find a clean patch. It was all ruined, all blood, all death in little ruby droplets.

Mags was there, then, kneeling beside him. Someone had found a blanket and she helped him wipe the weapon clean. It was gone. He could rest now. He _had _to rest.

Vaguely, he remembered a man stepping forward with a syringe, cold and faceless and all in Capitol white. Mags pulled him close, snarling something that even Finnick couldn't understand. The man had gone, leaving only the warmth of her lips against his forehead, a whisper that might have been "Not yet."

It wasn't how a victor should return; she hadn't needed to remind him of that. He wiped at his cheeks, willing the tears to stop. It was better now that the blood was gone, now that he could shrug out of his ruined clothes and drape a paper robe around his shoulders. He hadn't even minded making the trip down to the hospital level mostly naked. Some victors were pulled out of the arena half-dead, but he'd been determined to return on his own legs, even if his knees were shaking. He'd even managed a smile for a few of his doctors and nurses.

They said that he was better-fed than most tributes, not sick or infected or dehydrated. Mags had done wonders with the sponsors and he had wanted for nothing. All it had taken was a full-body polish to get rid of the scrapes and bruises and he was back before the crowds.

To hear them tell it, half the Capitol had sponsored him at one time or another and each and every one of them felt the need to introduce themselves. He'd been the favorite from the beginning – which seemed to Finnick like it should have made for a boring game – but they never tired of watching the odds tip ever in his favor.

He'd lost himself to the squall, riding it through, letting this sea of laughing, smiling faces replace the ones that had begun to haunt his dreams. Girls fell at his feet now, not because he'd hurt them, but because he'd made them happy.

He'd been too young to really understand then, of course, but he had noticed the shift in their gazes. He wasn't going off to die anymore; now they had a chance to keep him. Even Lexia, one of his prep team, had lingered before that final interview, blotting at his legs with a warm towel long after she'd ripped the wax away.

"I can't wait to see what happens when you grow up," she'd said. He'd grinned, but one of the others had tsked and pulled her away.

There was always another woman to smile for, another hand to shake, another photograph to take. If it kept him busy, even kept him from sleeping, all the better.

He'd moved into a house in the Victor's Village, not on the busy bay, but on a quiet strip of beach. Really it was a dead place, kept peaceful only by the fact that it was too shallow for the boats and not green enough to attract many fish. Still, he spent most days out on the sand, and most of those alone. His older brother already had a family of his own and his father had chosen to stay in their old home, the place where Finnick had grown up, the place where his mother had died years before.

So he had filled the house with other things. Even years later, he had to smile to think of some of the ideas that a fourteen-year-old boy with all the money in the world had come up with, still chuckled to picture the look on Mags' face when some new toy or other had arrived from the Capitol.

But he'd been strangely relieved when it had come time for the Victory Tour, when it was time to return to that world of smiles and dinners and photographs. Every victor had to have a talent, some passion on which to spend their new-found free time. He'd tried carpentry, keeping his hands busy by turning driftwood into things that they called art – but deep down, he wondered if this wasn't it, if his true talent wasn't simply playing the little prince. He was certainly good at it.

The next year he returned to the Capitol as a mentor though, in truth, Mags did most of the work. Had he ever apologized for that? He had meant to. But now he never could. He wanted to tell her how scared he'd been, that it was easier to face the pawing of a hundred eager fans than look into the eyes of those two children. To try and tell them that everything would be all right, when instead he could just smile and wave and say nothing at all.

Maybe it would have made a difference for them, for him. But now they were just more names that he could barely remember, faces that he would never forget. Soon enough it was over. He'd made it through again.

The next year promised more of the same. He'd felt older, knew what to expect now. There would be distractions, the adoration of the crowd. As long as he kept moving – kept paddling to keep his head above water – and didn't look too closely at the tributes, there was nothing that could hurt him here. The entire Capitol loved him. And when had love ever hurt anyone?

He was a guest of Snow himself this time, joining the throng of ministers, celebrities and other important citizens filing toward the President's mansion after the tribute parade. The crowd seemed thicker than ever before, admirers jostling for a place beside him, still boasting of how they contributed to this gift or that back in his Games. They'd never let him forget that he owed them but all he could do in return was listen and smile and try to act suitably impressed. Because he wasn't only speaking for himself – he'd resolved to remember that this year. But each time he turned the talk to District Four's tributes, it inevitably swung back to him. A hand lingering on his shoulder, compliments on his outfit as manicured nails stroked the fabric of his chest, winking questions about the girls back home. One pair of older, heavily-altered ladies even had him flex a muscle as they took turns squeezing his arm.

That was when he spotted her, standing alone beside one of the banquet tables and barely containing her laughter. She was clearly from the Capitol, her skin painted white and her hair done up in a complicated pile of dark violet curls, but she could not have been much older than Finnick and made no move to join the crowd. She arched a brow at him over the bobbing heads of the still-giggling women and he found himself mouthing the word "help".

The girl sauntered toward them on swaying steps, sweeping up behind the women to plant a kiss on each of their cheeks. "Liddie. Bernisia. So good to see you again."

The pair seemed nearly as enamored with the new arrival as they were with Finnick himself, bowing and fluttering until the girl politely but pointedly excused them. She linked an arm through his, sharing a knowing wink with the next wave of admirers as she steered him toward the edge of the room.

Smirking up at him, she shook her head. "They have a point, you do have nice arms. All lean and corded from hauling nets, or whatever fishing involves..." Her eyes wandered as she trailed off, before snapping back to his. "Anyway."

He grinned, slinging an arm around her shoulder as he turned to watch the crowd. "Thank you. For the rescue."

"You certainly needed it. Not like in the arena."

"Well, I had help there too." Smiling down at her, he wet his lips. "From you, maybe?"

She kept her eyes on the crowd, but in answer her hands moved to the neck of her dress, parting the collar just enough to reveal the jewels nestled there. The largest was a gemmed trident, suspended on chains of impossibly thin golden links that rested loose upon the rise of her breast.

"You have excellent taste."

"And you learn quick, Four. That's the highest compliment you could pay most of these people." She rolled her eyes.

"But not you?"

"_I _am still offended that you haven't recognized me." When he only shrugged, she gave an exasperated sigh. "I'm Cordelia Day."

"The singer?" He had grinned, actually impressed. "I like your music."

"Aw, you even lie pretty."

"No, really. I have some of your disks. You should see my collection."

She let him pull her closer, snuggling into his shoulder. "Spending your winnings properly, I see." She looked up at him from beneath lowered brows. "It's what I do, what I love. But what about you? What sort of person volunteers for the Games at only fourteen?"

"My district—"

"—Yes, yes. For the honor of your district, of the Capitol. _Obviously. _What I mean is, why fourteen? Most of your kind wait until they're nearly eighteen, when they're at their biggest, their strongest..."

Because every kid thinks he can take on the world. Because he'd been cocky. Because he hadn't _known_. But still, he grinned. "It worked out, didn't it? I grew up quick. And like you said, I'm a fast learner."

"Mm." Smirking up at him, she slipped from beneath his arm and took his hand in hers, leading him toward the mansion's inner halls. "Come on."

He'd followed eagerly, letting her press him back into a darkened corner once they were out of sight of the other guests. Girls had always liked him, even more since he became a victor, and he'd had his share of stolen kisses back home. It was different here; everyone in the Capitol was strange and he still didn't understand most of the things that they found interesting. But the thought that a Capitol girl – and a famous one – wanted to kiss him had left him suddenly giddy.

When she tried to pull him toward the stairs, though, he stopped. "We shouldn't."

"Of course we should."

"It's the President's mansion." Fear held him, fear and the sudden memory of the night that he was crowned, the first time he had met Snow face-to-face. He'd been right about that much at least.

She leaned up on tiptoe, nipping at his lip. "It's all right. I promise he won't mind. ...He's my uncle."

"Really?" Finnick blinked down at her, but it still wasn't her face that he saw.

"I said so, didn't I? Now, come on." Again, she tugged and this time he followed.

* * *

><p>They say those are the moments you never forget, the excitement of youth, of new experiences. But maybe you can experience too much. That night could have been any other – a dark room, a soft laugh, smooth skin beneath his lips. She had had this funny little smile... or had she? That could have been someone else. The moments that he <em>did <em>remember – the ones that were still etched in perfect detail – wouldn't come until later. And he couldn't think about that. Not now.

He had woken with a strangled cry, thrust into an unfamiliar place from too familiar dreams. The bed was lush, the sheets damp with sweat, though he couldn't have said whether it was from the dreams or the night before. And he wasn't alone.

The avox stood silently, carefully averting his eyes as he bowed Finnick toward the washroom.

"Where's Cordelia?" Of course he couldn't answer. "Cordelia?"

The avox tipped his head ever so slightly toward the nightstand. A crisp white card was folded there, her trident necklace draped carefully beneath it. The neatly curling script simply said, "Thank you."

He smiled to himself, but the avox had been strangely insistent, glancing nervously toward the clock on the wall. Beside it was an open wardrobe, a complicated suit of slick green fabric already hung and waiting. Once on, the cut would be scandalous, even by Capitol standards.

Finnick smirked. "Does she want me to wear that?"

He hadn't expected a response but the avox looked panicked for a moment, glancing around the room before nodding. He gestured again to the washroom.

"Okay, okay. I won't keep her waiting."

It was only after the avox laid out fresh towels and left him, that he truly recalled where he was. The place wasn't simply strange; it was Snow's. The mansion was huge but the realization that he was using one of the President's guest showers brought back the cold dread of the night before. Someone had to have sent the avox.

He hurriedly washed, grabbing for a towel as he stepped out onto the warming mat. It slipped to the floor still dry.

Snow's eyes narrowed, but not for Finnick's nakedness. They remained slitted and cold, never moving from his own. How long he had been there Finnick couldn't guess, but he sat stiffly in on a low stool, hands resting firmly but patiently on his knees.

Finnick scrambled to retrieve the towel, asking the only question that came to mind in his sudden panic. "Where's Cordelia?"

Snow scowled, waiting for him to correct his familiar tone, maybe. But when nothing more was forthcoming, he sighed. "Returned home, I suspect. You were only to be hers for the night."

"'Hers?'"

"That was our arrangement."

"'Arrangement?'"

Snow's fingers stroked the rose in his lapel. "I had thought a victor would be more clever. Does District Four breed parrots now?"

He stood silent, unsure of what to say.

"Miss Day is a valued citizen. Popular. Influential. Wealthy."

Finnick's eyes narrowed. "How wealthy?"

"Considerably more so than you. Though somewhat less after last night." He coughed. "She was quite pleased."

"Yeah? She seemed to like me."

Snow game a bemused snort. "I wouldn't be so certain. Beauty is one thing; arrogance is quite another."

"She _did _like me."

"She _paid _for you."

He had refused to believe it, but something in his stomach had gone cold. "I'll see her. I'll ask her. Tonight."

"_Tonight _you will be attending a viewing party hosted by the Minister of Finance. You will be accompanying Seris and Sephia Valence."

"The stylists for District One?" The brother and sister pair had been a dominant force in the Games for years, notoriously producing some of the most outlandish costumes that the Capitol had ever seen. For a moment, his panic flared. He had personally killed both of their tributes in his Games. What would they want with him? Could they be plotting some sort of revenge?

At his obvious distress, Snow shook his head. "I take it you've seen the outfit they've prepared. Cutting-edge, they're calling it."

"And they want me to model it?"

Snow's amusement faded, his lips pressing thin. "The Valences take more... pleasure in their work than the Games technically allow."

"And in each other, if you believe the rumors."

"That will be our little secret." Whether Snow realized it or not, he had remembered those words.

He'd forced himself to meet the President's eyes, to share his conspiratorial smile. Snow chuckled and Finnick chuckled with him, his smile becoming a grin, grin becoming a grimace. He stood there, shaking naked on the mat until he was laughing, choking, bending double. "No." He managed between gasps. "No."

_"'No?'"_The edge had returned to Snow's voice, his whisper hollow.

"No." Finnick composed himself, cinching the towel firmly around his waist. "No, I'm not going. I'm going to find Cordelia, get the truth. And then I'm going to—"

"—Return to your district? Visit your father in his yellow house behind the square?" Snow leaned forward slowly, seeming to fill Finnick's vision though he still sat calmly on the stool. "Perhaps visit your brother? See his lovely wife? His young son?"

Finnick opened his mouth to speak, but the president continued.

"And how is the boy? I hear he was taken ill just before the Reaping."

"He..." Thankfully, Rory had years before he would be eligible for the Games, but he had developed a persistent cough in the days before. "How did you know about that?"

Snow smiled. "What sort of president would I be if I didn't monitor the well-being of my people? A pity, though, for an otherwise healthy boy. That would be right before you came to join us, wouldn't it?" He coughed, pulling a pale handkerchief from his pocket to dab the blood from his lips.

What was he saying? Would Snow really kill a child to ensure his cooperation? Finnick hadn't had to think about it long. "I'll get him medicine. I can afford it."

"I'm sure you can. But what if that medicine were needed in the Capitol? Could I really weigh the lives of my own people against that of one boy from the districts?"

Finnick's hands balled at his sides. He wanted to scream, wanted to lunge for him, itched to have a weapon in his fist. He trembled with it, but that's all he'd done – trembled. Nothing more. "But you do have it... the medicine?"

"I do." Snow sat back, folding the bloody handkerchief neatly in his lap. "Call it a gift. To bring you peace of mind while you enjoy the party."

"And while your friends enjoy me?"

Snow sniffed as though he found the tone distasteful. "A word of advice, Mr. Odair. Enjoy the attention. Enjoy the clothes; enjoy the food. You are here through the Capitol's benevolence, raised from nothing and triumphing through her generosity. _My_generosity." He rose smoothly, straightening the rose. "It would be easier for both of us if you would remember that."

Snow had left him there, still dripping, still trembling, alone and naked in his fine borrowed rooms. The avox had returned with a breakfast tray, but Finnick had shouted something unintelligible, chasing him away. The Games weren't over, would never be over; he would always be under the Capitol's gaze. But he had made it through before, hadn't he? Then, it had only been his own life at stake. Now, though... Somehow he'd found his way back to the bed. Curling beneath the blankets, he pulled his knees to his chest.

* * *

><p>"What a lovely necklace." Seris leaned close, his tightened skin pulling into a brittle smile as he rubbed the trident between his fingers. Finnick couldn't say why he'd worn it, but the costume that the stylists had designed plunged low, leaving most of his chest exposed in a deep 'v'. He'd added Cordelia's gift at the last minute, an attempt at playing along, maybe.<p>

He grinned. "I have lots of lovely things."

"Oh, I bet you do. Don't you think so, sister?"

Sephia draped herself on Finnick's arm, resting her head on his shoulder. Next to him, the pair looked almost conservative, dressed in matching high-necked suits. The colors were similar and Seris seemed quite keen to discuss the idea of complimentary juxtaposition with the crowds of admirers who filtered past. Finnick had stopped listening a long time ago.

His sister, on the other hand, seemed content to communicate in a series of shrieks and giggles, throwing herself excitedly into the arms of one friend after another. Now she seemed to be purring.

As Seris bent to kiss the hand of another guest, Finnick found himself being watched. This time Cordelia only smirked, raising her glass to him as she fingered the spot where the necklace had lay. Her companions noticed, three more sets of eyes turning to him. Cordelia said something in a low voice and they all burst into laughter.

Finnick straightened, shifting his weight, using the outfit to its full effect. "Seris?"

"Mm? Oh." He smirked, forgetting his conversation entirely. "What have you done with your belt, dear boy? Come here." He shook his head, fingers deftly adjusting the coils of silk at Finnick's waist as he pulled him close.

Finnick moved with him, holding Cordelia's gaze as he leaned close to whisper in the man's ear. She scowled, the laughter of her friends continuing without her. But the stylist's hands lingered, his chuckle deep and appreciative.

Stepping back, he grinned. "He likes the outfit, sister. He wants to know our secret."

Finnick forced himself to smile with them. _Over, under, pull it through..._

One more night and it would be over. One more and one more after that. Rolling over and under, under and over, tumbling and tumbling. Through and through and though. He had to make it through.


	3. Chapter 3

_Bend the ends, make one of two..._

Another tug, another knot undone. He let one frayed end tickle across his palm, rolled the escaping threads between his fingers. Taking up the other end, he looped them together, tying a quick sheet bend and pulling it tight. Tighter. Until his calloused fingers screamed.

The rope formed a ring now. Two broken edges had become a whole.

* * *

><p>He'd thought it was the end. Three years of bending without breaking, of playing along, of never getting a moment's rest. That, at least, he could handle. It was widely known that he never spent the night, that he would be moving on to his next conquest before dawn. Let them whisper. It was safer that way. Let them think it was all a game. Never let them see that, when he did sleep, he woke screaming.<p>

But it _was _a game, one that began the moment they plucked him from the arena. He might have learned to play, given them a good show, but he'd lost. It was over. They couldn't hurt him anymore.

He felt her shudder beneath him. Letting himself go, he slumped against her, resting his head in the bend of her knee. The end. Again, the end. But if it was over, why was he still here? Why keep playing when he'd already lost? Because he didn't know anything else.

"Finnick?" She shifted uncomfortably, her legs still stretched over his shoulders, the full weight of him still collapsed against her.

"Sorry." He rolled aside, stretching the soreness from his back as he turned away.

"Is something wrong?"

The game, always the game. No rest for the Capitol's favorite victor. He'd rolled toward her, making his best attempt at a weary but satisfied grin. "Just catching my breath. You certainly..." He let his gaze roam over her, his eyes implying the rest.

Lexia giggled, her flush deepening. She'd been a member of his prep team once, kind to him in that hollow Capital sort of way. She'd done well for herself, too, was working for a minister now.

Propping himself on an elbow, he brushed a tangle of hair from her forehead. For all appearances, he was content to enjoy the moment, the silence. It worked like a charm.

"Finnick? Would you like to know a secret?"

Of course he did. At first the idea had seemed a secret all its own, a way to work beyond the game, to one day beat it. He'd become a collector of sorts, trading gifts of money or jewelry for whispers shared in dark rooms and on dampened pillows. He wasn't entirely helpless, not like the people they'd held against him. He had leverage. Maybe one day he could hurt them back.

But he'd lost anyway. It had been a stupid idea, thinking he could weigh words against lives. And a weight was all they were now. Nothing could shock him, no matter how exciting or salacious. The secrets of his patrons had become one more thing to carry with him, the truth of the Capitol's inner workings only serving to feed his nightmares.

But he had smiled, always he smiled.

"I've had a job offer." She couldn't contain her excitement. "To be on the President's _personal _prep team."

So her secret was the promise of more secrets. Leaning low, Finnick planted a playful kiss on her forehead. "You've come a long way since you were on _my_ prep team. Maybe you'll tell me if _every _part of him really smells like roses.

Some mental image must have hit her because her nose scrunched up in horror. When he laughed, she clamped a hand over her mouth, appalled that even her expression might have implied something less than noble about their benevolent leader.

"Don't worry." Finnick brushed a parting kiss across her lips as he stood. "If you'd rather get intimately acquainted with the pores of an old man than – say – _mine_, I won't tell anyone. It'll be out little secret."

Lexia sat up in the bed, hugging a pillow to her chest as she watched him tug on his pants. "That's what I'm saying. I'll be able to afford you properly soon."

Slipping his shirt over his head, he moved toward the door and spared her a wink. "We'll see."

He'd never asked what they actually paid for him; he'd almost been afraid to know. It wasn't always money. Some of them had done Snow favors, had secrets of their own and needed to be kept appeased. Sometimes they shared them with him, sometimes not. For every secret he did know, he was sure there were at least three more that he didn't, each worse than the next.

He hurried along the empty streets, letting the pre-dawn light lead him back to the Training Center. The tunnels below the city might be coming alive with morning deliveries, but the celebrations following last night's tribute parade had gone long into the evening. Most of the Capitol's citizens wouldn't wake until well after sunrise. The tributes themselves wouldn't have to report for training for hours yet.

As he slipped into the elevator and punched the button for the fourth floor, he expected to be alone. In fact, he'd made it all the way to the apartment's kitchen in search of coffee before he heard the sobs. Finnick moved silently, peeking round the corner to the living room.

It was the girl. Annie Cresta. She hadn't made much of an impression on him at the Reaping, only that she hadn't cried, not even when no one else stepped forward to volunteer. It wasn't like One and Two, where the tributes were practically decided beforehand, where the volunteer process could erupt into a bidding war. They trained in Four, sure, but if a decently-prepared candidate was picked by chance, most were content to let that be that.

Annie hadn't cried then, but she was crying now. She sat perched on the edge of the couch, shoulders hunched and delicate, sobbing into her hands. He supposed he wasn't the only one that couldn't sleep. Had it been like that for him? Even before the arena? He'd found himself lingering to watch her, trying to remember, to feel what it had been like when all he'd had to worry about was dying in the Games. It was strangely... peaceful.

Stepping into the room, he coughed. Annie sprung to her feet, whirling tensed and ready for an attack. He'd smirked. Maybe she wouldn't do so bad in the arena after all.

"It's okay. Better to do it here where the cameras can't see." He flopped down on the couch, propping his legs on the coffee table.

Still the tears ran freely down her cheeks, but her expression hardened. "Where have you been?"

She knew where. Or suspected, at least. He could only hope that she didn't know the whole of it. "Getting you sponsors."

"Another rich girlfriend?" Her fists had balled at her sides, but her eyes were watering again. "So that's what mentoring's about? That's all you can do for us?"

"It's what I'm good at." He'd been snappish, pushing to his feet and suddenly wanting to be anywhere but there, there with the girl who saw too much. Maybe he should tell her, tell her that she'd be better off dying in the arena, that it would be simpler that way. But _that _thought had been more than he could bear. If he stayed much longer, he'd be crying with her. "Finish up here. You have to get ready for training."

He'd fled to his rooms. Of all the things he could have done, he'd run from her.

* * *

><p>He had never liked making his visits during the day. He should be at the Training Center, at a viewing party, talking to sponsors. There wasn't as much action in the arena at night, but during the day he preferred to keep at least one eye on the television. Maybe he <em>was <em>becoming a better mentor. Even Mags had said so.

After that first night with Annie, he had felt guilty, had sworn to make it up to her. He couldn't have said why at the time, but he found himself spending as much time with her and the boy tribute, Darren, as he could, recounting every moment from his own Games that might have made a difference. He had had a lot of help from sponsors, but there was no reasons why they couldn't, too. He could do that for them.

He even sought them out before he left each evening – to say goodbye, to remind them that he would be back, that he wouldn't abandon them now or in the arena. It had felt important; he had so little time to prepare them. The hardest part had been Annie's eyes, so sad above her grateful smile.

There'd been no one to say goodbye to this morning; Mags had still been asleep and he didn't give a damn about the stylists. The summons had come from Snow himself, his neat script unmistakable, listing only the time and address of a well known Capitol photographer. A modeling appointment, probably. He'd done worse. Annie and Darren would be all right for a few hours.

They'd done well so far, survived the initial bloodbath and even managed to grab a few knives and supplies before going into hiding. Finnick had advised them to stay together as long as they could. Darren was older, bigger; he could protect Annie. She was clever, saw things others didn't. The hard part would come later, but he was relieved that they had taken his advice.

As he mounted the steps to the photographer's apartment, he found himself remembering that final night, the restless hours between the interviews and the start of the Games. They'd both done well. But when he went to say goodbye to Annie, to assure her that he would be there in the morning, she had seen through him again.

"You do it because they make you, don't you?" She had sat curled on her bed, hugging her knees to her chest, continuing before he could protest. "I felt it when I was up there, on stage. The way they looked at me."

"I..." What could he possibly tell her? Somehow, he couldn't lie. Not to her. "It happens sometimes. To the prettier victors. You didn't die for them, but they still want something."

"Would it be better, do you think? If I died?"

"No!" He sat beside her on the bed, taking her hands in his. Would that be the end of it? Yes. Would they leave her family alone? Probably. But he could never, ever say those things. She'd been so close, so unafraid. He squeezed her hands. "No."

"I'm not afraid."

He shook his head. "It's not... all bad. There are gifts..." It sounded lame, even to him. "And sponsors. If you're a mentor and you're popular, you can get your tributes sponsors."

She squeezed back. "You don't have to do that for me. I don't want you to."

"I have to. And I'd rather do it _for _something than because I'm afraid."

She had leaned her head on his shoulder then, her fingers still knotted through his. Finnick had found himself yawning, overcome with the urge to simply curl up on the bed, to rest and let the world fall away. But he was expected, had had to pull himself away, to meet that sad smile with one of his own.

He was still smiling as he rang the bell, as the door buzzed and swung aside. But memory fled when he heard the screams.

They were thick, guttural, rising into wordless shrieks. He crossed the entryway at a run, bursting breathless into the vaulted great room.

"Finnick Odair!" A man who must have been the photographer, Gaius Grey, gave him a cheerful wave. The rest of his attention was on the Avox girl bent over the table before him, her shrieks mixing with his laughter. "Be with you in a moment."

Another girl sat nearby. For the moment she was mute, but she was no Avox. Her hair was shorter than it had been the last time he'd seen her and she looked like she had aged far more than a year, but this was Johanna Mason, winner of last year's Games. They'd only met briefly before, but Finnick took a seat silently beside her.

"I didn't think they were supposed to do that." The girl was facing them, he realized; her eyes locked to Johanna's. "Not outright abuse them."

"Grey has a taste for Avoxes. They say he likes the screams. Snow overlooks it and even sends him new ones in exchange for his propaganda work."

Now Johanna looked to him, her eyes narrowing. "How do you know that?"

"Never mind." Grey had finished; they best thing they could do was keep silent.

As the girl collected herself and fled, he turned to them with a beatific smile. "Ah, Miss Mason, Mister Odair. I see you've met." He bent to kiss Johanna's hand, catching it deftly as she jerked away. "I've asked you here to take part in a very special project, an exhibition of victors' portraits to be unveiled at the conclusion of the Games!"

The announcement obviously didn't have the desired effect. Johanna arched a brow. "'_Asked_' us here...?"

Grey waved the comment away. "Just wait. You'll see. Now, why don't the two of you get changed while I go and gather a few things, hm?"

Finnick scanned the room. "Change into what?"

"Nude will be just fine. Very tasteful. You'll see." He chuckled. "Though if you two should feel the need to... mmm... perfectly understandable. Just wait until I return, please."

"If that's why you wanted us, just say so." Johanna was on her feet, her sneer dangerous.

Grey stepped back, doing an impressive job of looking scandalized, but his glare was for Finnick. "Tame her, Odair. Or so help me, the president will hear of it." With that, he turned on his heel and left them.

"You can't do that..." Finnick lay a hand on her arm, but Johanna shrugged him off.

She paced, tearing at her clothes and letting them fall to the floor. When he simply stood there, she closed the distance between them, grabbing his hand and placing it on her breast. "There. Is that what you want?"

"No!" he hissed, pulling his hand away. "Of course not."

"But it's what they want. That's how it works, right? That's how _you _do it?"

"Look, calm down—"

"Makes you wish you were an Avox, huh? Then we'd only have to worry about people like Grey. But it's everybody. Everybody can do whatever they want to us." She was sobbing, the tears streaming down her cheeks, nails biting into her palms.

Finnick moved to put a hand on her shoulder and she flinched, but then she seemed to give up entirely, pounding a fist against his chest as she collapsed against him. She blew her nose nosily against his shirt.

"Okay, ew."

Her sobs choked into something like a laugh. "Sorry. But you're gonna have to take it off anyway." She helped him pull the shirt up over his head, resting her cheek against his bare chest. "They killed my mom. Yesterday. Someone filmed it. Snow made me watch."

Finnick put his arms around her. "He poisoned my nephew. He said he'd cure him if I cooperated... and he did. But then my brother drowned two days later. He was the only person I know who's a better swimmer than me. And they just poisoned Rory again the next year. He died. My brother's wife... she blames me, won't even speak to me. But they could still hurt her, too." He pinched shut his eyes. It was the first time he'd spoken the words out loud. "My father. They said they caught him stealing food a few months ago, catching fish and not turning them over. He wouldn't have to do that. I made sure he had enough. But the Peacekeepers arrested him. They told me he died in custody a few days later."

Johanna had gone quiet. "So that's it? They have no one left to use against you?"

"Just Meghan, my brother's wife. Mags, too."

"Your mentor? They've probably been using you against her, too."

He'd never thought about it that way.

Johanna pulled back to look at him. "That must be hard for you."

"It is for everybod—"

"Not that. Admitting someone's a better swimmer than you." She forced a grin and he had to smile with her.

"It's not all bad. I mean, it is. But look at it this way—"

"They'll kill us all eventually?"

He sighed, shaking his head. "You can use the popularity for something. You're a mentor this year, right? Use it to help your tributes."

Johanna snorted. "My tributes don't stand a chance."

"Everyone said the same thing about you."

"And now they're expecting it. You can only use that strategy once." She had started pacing again. Looking back at him, her eyes narrowed. "You actually think yours can win, don't you?"

"They might."

"Yeah? You've got that big boy, right? What's his name?"

"Darren. But Annie's clever, quick. You should see her—"

Johanna burst out laughing. "Finnick Odair, sucker for a pretty face." She bent double, making a show of holding her sides. "I thought it was all just an act."

"I'm—"

"Blushing? Don't worry, it's cute."

Annie... He hadn't thought about it until that moment, not like that. She'd been radiant up on stage, haunted when she looked at him, even pretty when she cried. But she was in the arena now. She was in the arena and he was here.

He was still gaping at Johanna when Grey burst back into the room, bounding with excitement. "Oh, come and see! Come and see! There's been a death!"

Finnick and Johanna shared a look. It was her turn to offer him a steadying arm, not bothering to retrieve her clothes as they followed Grey into the inner rooms and the television waiting there. They were already replaying it.

He heard Annie's scream, saw the blood spray across her face. The room spun and he might have been falling but Johanna was there, whispering something in his ear.

"...not her..."

He saw Annie throw herself forward, knocking the sword from the boy's hand. The boy that had killed Darren. She landed hard on his chest, scrambling for the weapon, shrieking as she drove it again and again into his neck. The camera followed as she ran off into the trees, but not before it found her eyes.

Finnick staggered. No, oh no. Oh, Annie…

"Bad luck." Grey tsked and lay a hand on his shoulder. "I had money on the boy, myself."

"Gaius."

"Hm?"

Finnick straightened, staring down at him. "Can we do something sooner? Not just an exhibit, but bigger..."

"A campaign?" At least the man caught on quickly. "Something to entice the sponsors, hm? To extoll the beauty of District Four. Perhaps a limited run of autographed lithos..."

As he rambled on, Johanna arched her brows at Finnick.

"I'd want to start now. We don't need Miss Mason."

She gaped, but hid it well as Grey turned to look at her. "Ah, but to put my own project on hold... and the cost of materials alone..."

"Whatever it costs. I can afford it."

"Mm? Yes, yes I suppose. I do love passion. When inspiration strikes, yes?" He began bobbing around, gathering his things. "You may go, Miss Mason."

Still she stood stunned, but Finnick rolled his eyes toward the door. Hesitating a moment, she mouthed "good luck."

* * *

><p>He'd played their game, outdid them all. Even Snow had to have been impressed. Night, day, he was always busy, entertaining even beyond the appointments that had already been made for him. He graced the walls of countless living rooms, Gaius' prints having become the must-have art of the season. Annie even made an appearance in a few of the street ads, but not many. Let them forget her when this was all over. Let them deal with him.<p>

Rumor had it that Finnick had even found himself in the home of the Head Gamemaker the night before the arena flooded. But the two events had nothing to do with each other and any whispers otherwise were forgotten in the excitement of the Games' end. The finale had been nothing short of spectacular, tributes clawing at each other even as the water engulfed them all. And when the waves receded, a lone victor remained. It had been something of a surprise, her return the cause of much excitement.

'Excitement' wasn't the word he would have used. As he shielded his eyes to watch the hovercraft descend, waiting on the Training Center roof with Mags and a team of doctors, Finnick was more nervous than he'd ever been. She was safe. It was over. Then why was his stomach in knots?

When the pair of Peacekeeper carried her out, draped limply between them, he knew. He'd watched every moment of the Games that he could, watching for some sign, some hint of the girl that he had known. She was still there, but there was something else... something broken. They hadn't even given her a chance to win first.

They'd sedated her almost immediately, they said, using words like "incoherent... didn't know where she was…." But Finnick wasn't listening. He was pushing past the doctors, knocking aside the gurney to scoop her into his arms.

As her head fell against his chest, she stirred. One of the doctors grabbed her arm and she shrieked, clawing at him. Mags shouldered the man aside, but there was no recognition for even her in Annie's eyes, only more screaming, more thrashing in his arms. Finnick held tighter, forcing her to look up at him. She fell still, then, eyes widening in surprise and relief. "F-Finnick?"

"Hi, Annie."

She sagged against him, falling limp in his arms. Still he hadn't let the doctors take her, had carried her down to the hospital himself. It wasn't until later that he realized word would probably get back to Snow, but he could simply say it was his duty as a mentor. If he never left her bedside for more than a few moments, well, he was concerned.

What came next had been harder. No matter how relieved he'd been to have her back, to have her smiling for him, gripping his hand when the world threatened to twist away from her again... he couldn't show it. He couldn't let them see that she needed him, or that he needed her. Anyone could tell by looking at her that something wasn't right; maybe they wouldn't have to worry about her sharing Finnick's fate. But if she broke down on camera, if she forced the people of the Capitol to see what they'd truly done... Snow would never allow it. He'd kill her first.

And so Finnick had found himself standing in the wings while Annie gave her victor's interview, giving nods of encouragement and smiles of reassurance whenever she began to lose the thread. With Mags' help, they had practiced every response they could think of. He hadn't told Annie what he really feared but, like so much else, she seemed to have simply known.

Caesar Flickerman, though, had taken note of her sideways glances. "Who is it that you keep looking at, my dear?"

Annie had flushed. "My mentor."

"Aha! Is that Finnick Odair I see? Handsome lad like that, who wouldn't stare? What do you think folks? Should we bring him out here?"

Finnick had walked out across the stage to thunderous applause, stopping just beside Annie's chair. She looked as though she wanted to reach for him, but he held himself carefully apart.

"Welcome, Finnick! I daresay you're in an enviable position, Miss Cresta, to be mentored by such a decisive victor _and _one who is so popular with the sponsors."

She'd managed a smile. "It certainly didn't hurt."

Caesar let the audience's laughter die before continuing. "And you, Finnick. What do you think of young Annie, here? It seems you may have a bit of a crush on your hands."

He couldn't look at her, couldn't take the risk. Instead gave an exasperated sigh and fixed his most winning smile on the crowd. "She's a good girl. But you know what I like most about the Capitol, Caesar?"

"What's that?"

"The _women_." He threw in a wink for good measure. "If she thinks she can compete with _that_, well, she'll have to get in line."

From the corner of his eye, he saw Annie's lips tremble, her eyes losing focus again. But even Caesar was laughing too hard to notice.

"Insatiable. Of course you are." Caesar rose to shake his hand and Finnick used the opportunity to give Annie's shoulder an unseen squeeze. "Finnick Odair, ladies and gentlemen!"

He barely remembered the walk from the stage, Mags putting her arm around him as they watched the rest of the interview. Annie did well. She wasn't particularly talkative and smiled at awkward moments, but she answered every question directly, her soft whisper bashful rather than afraid. If there was a difference between this girl and the one they'd met two weeks ago, the audience didn't seem to notice. She was just a shy, strange girl from the districts, not a threat to anyone.

It wasn't until they returned to the Training Center, until the stylists and even Mags had gone, that he'd let relief wash over him. Relief and guilt. He'd slipped into her room without knocking, shutting the door carefully behind him, afraid to raise his voice above a whisper even here.

"Annie, I-"

She threw herself into his arms. "You didn't mean it. You couldn't let them see."

"See what?" he'd whispered. He couldn't explain it, still didn't dare to - the reason he'd been so afraid, the reason he was trembling now. But somehow he thought she could. Her, of all people. Only her.

She was looking up at him. Not through him or away or at something no one else could see. There was no envy in her eyes, no pity, no hunger or greed. He only made her smile.

She'd reached up and touched his cheek, as she would so many times after when she needed to convince herself that he was real. That, he understood. This wasn't a place where you could believe in happiness.

Annie's lips pursed, her brows rising in concern as she wiped a tear from his eye. But he was pulling her closer then, bending low to cover those lips with his. She pushed up on her tiptoes to meet him, crushing herself against his chest, her own tears beginning again. But she was laughing, too, matching the chuckle swelling thick in his throat.

He'd been wrong. It wasn't the end. Maybe it should have been. Maybe he should have been beyond caring; maybe she should have been broken beyond repair. As two, they were already beaten. But together...

He'd spent the night wrapped around her, holding her against her nightmares, waking to find that his own had never come. In the predawn light, he knotted his fingers through hers. No, it wasn't the end. It was the beginning.


End file.
